I take her by the arm and lead her into her bedroom. She stumbles along beside me, trying not to laugh.

"So," I say when she collapses onto her bed. "You're drunk."

"I only had two beersh," she says.

"Uh-huh." I help her get undressed and then guide her into the bathroom. When she sees the toilet, she moans, "I'm gonna be shick-" and I barely have time to hold back her hair before the vomit flies.

When she is done puking, I put toothpaste on her toothbrush and hand it to her. She is pale now, and as weak as a rag doll. I can feel her trembling as I guide her into bed.

I crawl into bed beside her and put an arm around her. She leans against me and sighs. "I feel terrible."

"Consider this a life lesson. This is not two beers, by the way. So what were you really drinking?"

"Absinthe."

"Absinthe." That is not what I expected. "Is that even legal?"

She giggles.

"In my day girls like Ashley and Lindsey and Coral drank rum and Cokes," I say, frowning. Am I really so old that I don't know what kids are drinking these days? "I am going to call Ashley and-"

"No!" she cries.

"No, what?"

"I, uh ... wasn't with them," she says.

Another lie. "Who were you with?"

She looks at me. "A bunch of kids from my therapy group."

I frown. "Oh."

"They're cooler than I thought," she says quickly. "And really, Tully, it's just drinking. Everyone does it."

That's true. And she's definitely drunk; I can smell it on her breath. Drugs would be different. What eighteen-year-old doesn't come home drunk at least once?

"I remember the first time I got drunk. I was with your mom, of course. We got caught, too. It wasn't pretty." I smile at the memory. It was 1977, on the day I was supposed to go in foster care. Instead, I'd run away-straight to Kate's house-and convinced her to go to a party with me. We'd gotten busted by the cops and been put in separate interrogation rooms.

Margie had come for me, in the middle of the night.

A girl who lived with us would have to follow the rules. That was what she said to me. After that, I got to see what a family was, even if I was on the outside, looking in.

"Paxton is way cool," Marah says quietly, leaning against me.

This worries me. "The goth kid?"

"That's harsh. I thought you didn't judge people." Marah sighs dreamily. "Sometimes, when he talks about his sister and how much he misses her, I start to cry. And he totally gets how much I miss my mom. He doesn't make me pretend. When I'm in a sad mood, he reads me his poetry and holds me until I feel better."

Poetry. Sorrow. Darkness. Of course Marah is drawn in. I get it. I've read Interview with a Vampire. I remember thinking Tim Curry was totally hot in Rocky Horror, spangly heels and corset and all.

But still, Marah is young and Dr. Bloom says she's fragile. "As long as you're with a group of kids-"

"Totally," Marah says earnestly. "And we're just friends, Tully. Me and Pax, I mean."

I am relieved by this.

"You won't tell my dad, right? I mean, he's not as cool as you are, and he wouldn't understand me being friends with someone like Pax."

"I'm glad you're just friends. Keep it that way, okay? You're not ready for anything more. How old is he, by the way?"

"My age."

"Oh. That's good. I guess every girl gets swept away by a brooding poet at least once in her life. I remember this weekend in Dublin, back in- Oh, wait. I can't tell you that story."

"You can tell me anything, Tully. You're my best friend."

She twists me around her little finger with that one; I love her so much right now it honestly hurts. But I can't let her glamour me. I need to take care of her.

"I won't tell your dad about Pax, because you're right, he'd freak. But I won't lie to him, so don't make me. Deal?"

"Deal."

"And Marah, if I come home to an empty house again, I'm calling your dad first and the cops second."

Her smile falls. "Okay."

It changes something in me, that late-night talk with Marah.

You're my best friend.

I know it's not quite true, that really we are surrogates for each other, both of us standing in for Kate. But that truth fades in the sunshine of a beautiful Seattle summer. Marah's love for me-and my love for her-is the lifeline I have needed. For the first time in my life, I am really, truly needed, and my reaction to that surprises me. I want to be there for Marah in a way I've never really been there for anyone. Not even Kate. The truth is that Kate didn't need me. She had a family who loved her, a doting husband, and adoring parents. She brought me into the circle of her family and she loved me, but I was the one with the need.

Now, for once, I am the strong and stable one, or I intend to be. For Marah, I find the strength to be a better version of myself. I put my Xanax and sleeping pills away and cut back on the wine. Each morning I get up early to make her breakfast and make the calls for dinner takeout to be delivered.

Then I go to work on my memoir. After the dismal reunion with my mother, I decide to let go of the part of my story I don't know. It's not that I no longer care-I still care deeply. I am desperate to know my own life story, and my mother's, but I accept the reality. I will have to write a memoir based on what I know. So, on a gorgeous day in July, I sit down and simply begin.

Here's the thing: When you grow up as I have, a lost girl without any real past, you latch on to the people who seem to love you. At least that's what I did. It started early, my holding on too tightly and needing too much. I always craved love. The unconditional, even unearned kind. I needed someone to say it to me. Not to sound poor me, but my mother never said it. Neither did my grandmother. There was no one else.

Until 1974, when I moved into the house my grandparents bought as an investment. It was on a little street in the middle of nowhere. Did I know when I moved into a run-down house with my pothead mom that my world had just shifted? No. But from the moment I met Kathleen Scarlett Mularkey, I believed in myself because she believed in me.

Maybe you're wondering why my memoir begins with my best friend. Maybe you're speculating that I'm really a lesbian or just plain broken or that I don't understand what a memoir is.

I'm starting here, at what seems to be the end, because my story is really about our friendship. Once-not long ago-I had a TV show. The Girlfriend Hour. I walked away from it when Katie was losing her battle with cancer.

Apparently, walking away from a TV show without warning is bad. I am now unemployable.